Kicking the Habit Ch. 02

The air is crisp, and clean outside; it smells like what the commercials only wish their soap could smell like. It's what they oughtta smell like... The sprinklers are whirring rapid shots of water over the lush thick of blue-green under moonlight. Soft lamps reflect off of puddles and wet sidewalk, and everything seems so serene.

I don't belong here, but if I don't show up then vice is gonna catch on real quick to who I am. The tuxedo I'm wearin' fits too tightly under the arms, and too loosely in the mid section; it definitely ain't me. Normally I'd just rip this monkey suit right off my shoulders, but tonight again is a special occasion o' sorts. I go an' take this jacket off, an' vice is gonna wonder why I have bullet holes and blood stains on the back o' my shirt. Stupid old codger. Too short, too many questions, not enough sense in that thick head of his. Besides, he was gonna kill a lady. I had to put him down. He was a calm one; the cool, creepy kind of calm that makes a serial killer out o' men. Psychotic calm. The former owner of my uncomfortable ass tuxedo wanted to off some dame because she was a smoker. I clubbed her with the grip o' my pistol, but I let her live. The unlucky recipient of my brand o' subterfuge however, wasn't so lucky. He was a little thick, and a little short; short and stocky some would say. I left him resting in his eternal sleep, sittin' high up in the branches o' some ol' pine in the golf course out back o' the estate. I shot the short ol' man twice--just twice. Buried the muzzle o' my barrel deep in his back, and I shot him good. He put up a fierce struggle at first, an' I thought maybe my luck had just run out, but that ain't the case either.

Alls I really want to do is slip in the back, make my way real easy like through the crowd, and out the front. I'll steal me a car, and it'll be like I was never here. Can't risk gettin' caught because I left my gun with the ol' dead guy I put down. Didn't wanna take chances slippin' through a crowd o' blue bloods like this. I ain't so young, or nimble anymore. I'm strong, but not like I used to be when I was a wrought iron little bastard full o' piss an' vinegar.

Slippin' in is easy. Short little twerp left his invitation in his pocket. I wave it at the doormen as I come walkin?' into this party maybe a little too ruggedly, and a little too roughly. People stare, and I'm thankin' all the Saints under heaven, and beyond that I didn't try to stuff my gun in my trousers. The rich. Damned blue blooded arrogant bastards; same kind o' people who put me behind bars. Murder One, the jury said. Guilty. No one ever even stopped to ask why; just whether or not I did it.

I couldn't tell you if any o' these people had judged me, but they're judgin' me now. Too rugged. Too rough. No grace. These bastards all look alike to me. Ain't no one movin' a muscle. Music's playin' still but the band sounds strained. No one's dancin'. Nothin'.

Then I see why, as I step out the front o' the Manor. Blues lined up ready for a showdown, and that sweet lookin' lady I clubbed. She's pointin' at me like I'm the one what was gonna kill her. Stupid lady, I saved you.

Idiots. I'm not a murderer. At best I'm a world class thief.

They order me to put my hands up.

"PUT YOUR HANDS UP!"

I put my hands up. The seams under the arms o' my new tuxedo rip. It reminds me o' a bad deodorant commercial. Raise your hands. Sure. Cept' I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all why I'm listenin' to any of these mugs. I ain't never hurt a person that didn't deserve it.

Her eyes is glassy, I can see it, though mine ain't. I'm calm, but not that creepy kinda cool that those serial killers feel, no. I'm jus' calm.

They order me to get down on my knees. Now.

"GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!"

I do as I'm told, mainly cuz' I don't want this to end in bloodshed. Namely mine, but quite possibly the trollop who ratted me out to the badges there. The bastards make sure I know they're not playing with me. I feel a club across the nape of my neck, and I'm face down in badly laid asphalt. It's sharp on my cheeks, and smells like dirt and dirty chocolate. It's sticky, from water runoff. The sprinklers were off now, but the water was still trickling about.

An' to think. I was givin' myself up on the life of crime, so I could open myself up one of those fancy flower shoppes. Maybe in Manhattan; probably more like Brooklyn though. I was gonna give up that whole crime thing, but now I'm pretty sure I don't have much o' a choice.